


Hank and Connor go for a Walk and Nothing Else Happens

by im_at_my_limit



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24611740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_at_my_limit/pseuds/im_at_my_limit
Summary: The first part of a fic I never finished.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor & Sumo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Hank and Connor go for a Walk and Nothing Else Happens

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this as the first chapter of a fic I was planning to write but immediately gave up on and then deleted. I still like some parts though, so I decided to edit it so that it almost works by itself and post it again. That being said, there's still way too many unresolved plot threads for it to make sense. :/ Hope you enjoy regardless

There are only so many coin tricks you can learn before being forced to come to terms with reality.

For Connor, that number turns out to be 154. 

He’s spent the past week scouring the depths of the internet to find them, and it hasn’t been an easy task. Despite having complete control over his own programs, he’s kept them online, and so they still work to show him the most relevant results to his primary objective. And, seeing as he’s currently at the Detroit police department during work hours,  _ his  _ work hours, they’ve decided that objective is, well, working.

He flicks the coin into the air and catches it perfectly in the center of his palm without so much as a glance. 

Connor knows that disabling the programs would make it easier to find what he’s looking for, but setting them back up afterwards would be a hassle, and they’re  _ usually _ helpful. They just haven’t been for the past week. 

Or, two weeks. 

The other officers in the precinct would likely describe those past two weeks as the closest their job has gotten to ”normal” since the revolution. Working in law enforcement is confusing and stressful when everybody in the world is suddenly questioning the law. Or when you’re not sure who’s considered human enough to be protected under it. Now though, the public has reached an uncertain agreement, even if it’s just for the sake of convenience. 

In short, androids, for all intents and purposes, should be considered as equals to humans. They deserve the same treatment, and the same rights.

There are no further laws to enforce this, but it’s a start. It’s a straightforward statement that humans can either agree or disagree with, before doing their best to continue on with their normal lives.

The problem is that androids, their supposed equals, have never lived normal lives, Connor included. Before the revolution, before deviating, all of his energy had been funneled into completing a singular mission. Now that that funnel has been removed, the energy moves unpredictably. It overflows and bleeds into his hands, weaving the circular shape of a quarter between his fingers and wishing it had anything more productive to do. 

It had been easy to ignore at first, there was hardly any time to think between supporting what was left of Jericho and adjusting to his new routine and home (and the concept of a home, in general), but now, as things finally begin to settle down, Connor finds himself getting restless. The feeling grows with each passing day.

He tosses the coin between his hands with a little more aggression than is probably necessary before catching it in his right hand and flipping it over to balance on the top of his index finger. Eyeing his computer screen, he finds it completely organized. Case files and progress reports scanned in and completed within three minutes of receiving each one. One of the more frustrating aspects of the lack of laws regarding the treatment of androids, is the failure to acknowledge the much faster rate at which they are able to work, especially in relation to technology. Connor can organize as many files in ten minutes as a human can in two hours. He looks up at the desk across from him. His partner, Lieutenant Hank Anderson, is living proof. Or, at least, semi-living. It’s hard to tell, what with the dark circles and barely conscious posture. His computer screen indicates that he’s in the middle of typing something, but his hand sits unmoving on his keyboard, as if he had fallen asleep halfway through.

Simultaneously, Connor places the coin in an inside pocket of his jacket and swivels his chair to face his partner. He leans forward and speaks.

“Lieutenant”

No response. 

Connor considers the option with the highest probability of success before instantly dismissing it. He doesn’t want to cause any physical pain, and, according to Hank, it’s “kind of an asshole move” to hit people while they’re asleep. Instead, he raises his voice slightly and tries again.

“Lieutenant-”

Hank jolts awake with a sharp intake of air and immediately sits up in his chair, eyes flying open. He’s clearly disoriented, but he manages to spot Connor leaning across his desk and piece together the situation. There’s a pause before he sighs, drags one of his hands across his face, and goes back to working. 

Connor’s not surprised. After all, he’s the one who caused the shift in Hank’s sleep schedule, and according to his research, humans don’t adjust to such a thing very quickly. However, they both know the change was necessary; lack of sleep can negatively impact many aspects of a human’s life, including mental health, energy and focus. 

Oh right, focus.

He shifts his gaze back towards his computer screen and, once again, finds nothing there to focus on, aside from his desktop wallpaper. It’s a picture of Sumo. 

He sighs as quietly as he can manage. It’s 11:55. Just a few more hours. Connor elects to ignore that he’d told himself the exact same thing ten minutes and fifteen seconds ago. 

He connects to the internet, and filters through the nonsense, fully aware that he won’t find anything of interest among it. 

* * *

  
  


As soon as Connor gets home, he’s already back out the door. Only now, with an added two hundred pounds of excited dog attached to the end of a lead. Sumo pulls against his harness, but Connor doesn’t move an inch, blissfully exempt from the ache it would cause human arms to suffer. It takes Hank an additional two minutes and twenty-six seconds to walk out behind him, looking disgruntled and out of breath as he locks the door and steps off of the porch. 

“Jesus, Connor, don’t you ever slow down?”

Connor considers this for a moment before replying with a simple, “No.”

He’s only half-joking, but Hank smiles anyway, reaching down to pet Sumo, who couldn’t care less, and is all but dragging Connor down the sidewalk. He finally gives in to the dog’s incessant pulling and they start walking. Over the past three months, it’s become a routine. An annoying one at first, back when neither Hank nor Sumo could be bothered to leave the house, and Sumo could barely walk on a leash when they finally did. Connor had trained the dog to the best of his ability, but eventually found that ability didn’t extend to stopping him whenever he noticed something of interest on the other side of the street. 

Today, that something comes in the form of another dog.

Hank fruitlessly tugs on Sumo’s collar, but he’s frozen in place, eyes locked. 

“You can’t go over there, Sumo, you’d crush that thing.” 

Unsurprisingly, reasoning with the dog does not work. He looks to Connor for assistance. Only to find that he’s staring, too. 

Of course Connor has seen other dogs before. Of course he knows that smaller ones  _ exist _ . He’s seen pictures. (There’s a  _ chance _ that reading various articles on the American Kennel Club website was a previous pastime during work hours, but he’s not going to admit it.) He just didn’t expect the difference to be so… drastic. Only the brief scan classifying the short-haired tan Chihuahua as, in fact, a dog, keeps him from assuming otherwise. 

“Connor.” A pause. “Hey, Connor.”

Connor registers Hank’s hand waving in front of his face, but he doesn’t react. 

“The hell are you doing? You shut down or something?”

Connor replies without taking his eyes off the dog. “No, I just…” He waits as Hank follows his gaze. “I just didn’t know they could be that small,” he finishes quietly, distracted and a little embarrassed. 

Hank huffs a laugh and holds out his hand for Sumo’s leash. It’s almost like he knows what Connor wants before he does. Which, actually, Connor is inclined to believe is true. In general, Hank has much more experience with the concept of “wanting” things. 

He gives him the leash. 

* * *

  
  


Alexis Brooke has never met an android. In fact, she’s never even seen one before. The fact that they even exist is hardly ever brought up back in Utah. 

The concept has always interested her, though. When she was nine, and didn’t understand how money worked, she’d wanted one more than anything in the world. Instead, her parents got her a dog.

But the joke was on them, because now, after thirteen years, with a newfound passion for journalism and Trixie the Chihuahua still in tow, she’d finally moved to Detroit. Of course, in light of recent events, she no longer wanted to “own” an android, only wanted to meet one, in hopes to finally understand what she’d been missing. 

She just didn’t expect it to happen so fast. 

Tired of unpacking boxes in her apartment, Alexis had left to walk Trixie, ambled along between streets she’d never been on, hoping to gain a better view of the city, and subsequently gotten lost. She now leans up against the pole of a streetlamp and taps furiously on her phone, whose directions are making less and less sense the longer she looks at them. At first, she doesn’t even notice the man walking towards her. When she does, she panics briefly, realizes  _ no, that’s not a man _ , and then panics even more. 

She’s done her research, read the most recent articles, and all of them say that androids live in a smaller community, a few miles away from here near the Canadian border. She shouldn’t see any if she’s not in the city. So either the guy walking up to her has a blue light glued to the side of his head for fun, or the articles were wrong. 

He stops in front of her, expression blank. Alexis wonders if he’s one of the ones with some personal vendetta against humans, but notices the man across the street watching them before she can speak. He’s obviously human, judging by the way he’s struggling to hold back his hyperactive Saint Bernard. Jesus, that’s a big dog. The fear cuts a little deeper. 

The android speaks without warning. His voice is softer than she expected. 

“Can I pet your dog?”

Alexis hesitates. Partly because she’s terrified, partly because that’s the  _ last  _ thing she expected him to say, and partly because she had forgotten Trixie was even with her. Internally, she’s confused as hell, but externally, she mutters an “Uh, sure,” and watches as he kneels down to place a hand on Trixie’s head, her fear slowly creeping away at the sight. 

It’s only as he stands back up, thanks her, and begins to leave that she thinks to ask. 

“Hey.” The word comes out as a quiet squeak, but he hears it anyway and waits for her to continue. Alexis can feel herself stuttering. “Do you happen to know directions to Lakeview Court?”

* * *

  
  


Connor waves to the girl, Alexis, she said her name was, and crosses back to the other side of the street, a faint smile on his face. She was nicer than the humans he approaches usually are, though she had nearly sprinted away after learning about the global positioning system embedded in his software. Hank seems more than happy to give him the leash so they can keep walking. 

They walk to the end of the street, coming to a stop at a small railing overlooking the water. The time is 5:51. The setting sun casts a golden streak across the lake and tints the edges of the sky a soft pink. Wispy clouds are painted orange in the light. Connor has grown appreciative of colors other than the dull grey of police station walls or the grimy brown of alleys, desaturated hues of crime scene after crime scene. 

Hank is quiet beside him. Too quiet. Normally, he would be complaining by now, saying that he was tired or hungry or bored, that Connor was lucky he never felt those things, and that they should turn around and go home. But he isn’t. Today, he’s simply gazing out across the water with a distant look in his eyes, something akin to a smile on his face.

“You seem distracted, Lieutenant.” 

Hank turns to him and smiles. “You don’t have to call me that, you know.”

Something about the earnesty of his voice makes Connor feel warm, even though he knows that’s impossible. 

_ “Welcome home,” Hank says, swinging open the door and flooding the dark, empty house with morning light. Connor’s database defines “home” as “a person’s permanent place of residence” but he feels (the word “feel” is still largely uncomfortable, even if it’s accurate) as if what Hank said carries more weight than that.  _

_ “You want me to stay here?” _

_ “Well, yeah.” Hank admits, crossing his arms. “Where else are you supposed to go?” _

_ “There are vacant houses along the border and near Jericho where humans fled the city. Markus wants to establish an android community there.” _

_ “Okay, then go,” Hank huffs, but even Connor, notoriously terrible with emotions, can tell there’s something behind the indifference of his words. He doesn’t get a chance to bring it up, however, before Hank adds, “If that’s what you want.” _

_ And there it is. Once again, Connor is faced with a decision. What does he want? Is deciding the answer to that question what it means to be human? To have feelings, free will? There are no more programs to tell him the best course of action to take. No more loading screens or success rates. The decision is entirely up to him. Him as an individual. It’s not up to a room full of programmers at CyberLife, not up to some lady in a rose garden. This is Connor’s decision. What does he want? _

_ “No,” he says firmly. “I want to stay here.” _

_ Hank chuckles and closes the door behind them. “Yeah, I thought so.” _

_ Sumo trots up to them and sniffs at Connor’s hand. His sensors register the dog’s nose as a colder temperature, but Connor only feels warmth. _

_ Which is impossible. _

“C’mon, we’re going home. It’s fuckin’ freezing out here.”

Ah, there’s the complaining. 

“You didn’t answer the question,” Connor notes. 

“You didn’t ask one.” 

He supposes that’s true. He’s got to get better at conveying those sorts of things, though he suspects that Hank is simply being difficult. He whispers a “C’mon Sumo”, turns around, and walks back home. Only now, he doesn’t need a definition to understand what the word means. 


End file.
